All that I am
By Geertje Jong
A collection of poems with diverse themes. About life and death, loss and rediscovery.
Zeal is not a virtue, unless you are a missionary. Yesterday is not for regretting. Xavier is my cousins name. Waifs and strays need looking after. Very pious people are usually liars.
The sun melts like Orange ice Behind the steel grey line The evening air-brush painted Into the lofty sky On by one the stars appear I shed my clothes Leave them on the shoreline
On the salty evening breeze A mournful melody Raches you from afar You kiss the hem of infinity Walk through the shadow of trees Into an everlasting Paradise.
Soft translucent mist Wraps her silver arms Around his jager coat In the knee high meadow grass He steps his boot shod feet Leaves animal prints behind His lonliness ribbons
He watches a murder of Crows As they gather on the Bell wire Their hooded eyes blinking And thinks of home The scuffed front door Where his fingerprints linger
A circlet on your tongue The body of Christ Melts in the heat Of your mouth The blood of your Fathers Son Brought to your lips Small drops of Ruby wine Slip past your chin
On the edge of the horizon Twists the mighty storm It curls it steel grey fingers Around the egg blue sky And comes like boiling water To land its deafening roar Trees are felled like matches
Love is a bread bin The one just over there My master makes some toast 'Please give me some' I beg 'You'll get your diner later' He says and pats my back I sit there while he eats it
Love is where the blind eye lives Love is where the free hand gives Love is where you find your heart Love is where the fire starts
It is no longer about yesterday. Or the future yet to come. Death has crept into the shadow of our lives. Eats away at the very fabric of our excistence. Mort the uninvited guest at our table.
You used to shout at me like thunder. Now you just attack me with a look. You watch me black and blue. When the milk is cold or when there aren't enough Oates in your porridge.
The mole hill gatherers come, with bucket and spade and barrow. At the early arrival of dusk. The fine milled soil gently lifted. To heap the bucket full. This crumbled earth, damp scented.
The day of the funeral the sky is thick with fat woolly clouds, like a herd of pregnant sheep huddled together on the brow of the hill.
How the sun in my eyes Blinds me from the truth Shades as big as bug eyes Leave me in the dark Every tiny glint of light Pinpricks in the shadows Leaves me breathless and hoping
Solace is my guardian I contemplate my journey Far from where I am sheltered I open the naked sky Shivering on the shoreline Among shards of broken hearts Reflecting on the mirrored sea